Being Honest
by Imriel
Summary: When bravado and confidence are gone, all you can do is try to be honest.


He had never felt so alone.

It was a feeling that he was able to push back from day to day, but for some idiotic reason today he just…couldn't.

His life was so fucking _artificial_. He was gorgeous. He had friends; he went to parties, drank, fucked, and did whatever made him happy in the moment.

But really, as soon as he was forcibly made aware of his utter failure at everything he attempted, it's as if all other denials he kept shattered along with his dreams. His bravado had held together his shallow sham of self-esteem, and now he was drowning.

His friends were vain creatures that didn't know him, and could actually be defined as acquaintances he sometimes spent time with. Nobody was going to seek him out to demand what was wrong if he barricaded himself in his home. They would probably not even notice he wasn't there.

At parties he was as good as nameless; no life-long connections to be made with the myriad bodies he ground against.

Alcohol contributed to his veneer of confidence, and also to the emotionally detached fucks.

What he really wanted, needed, was for someone _special—_to be special, to someone else.

Because right now, curled on his bed, he just felt empty. A biting wind blew in through the open window, but he wouldn't get up to close it. Why bother?

ooo

He felt completely listless.

What had his life become?

He knew he was barely eating these days. But then, when he did eat, it was the most invigorating experience—he had had an orange the other day for dinner, meticulously peeling it and making it _perfect_, before he let the slightly bitter fruit pass his lips. His mouth watered just thinking about it. Simple pleasures.

Pleasure. He approached pleasure now almost perfunctorily. When he felt an urge, he fulfilled it, finding himself absently stroking himself from time to time. Often he didn't even finish, he just…lost interest. When was the last time he had seen someone?

The fact was, he didn't even think that anyone would recognize him as he was now. He didn't feel like the person he used to be. He was lost.

ooo

Sometimes he went outside and thought about flying. It had been something he had been good at. Not the best, for sure, but something he had excelled at. He had been needed, as part of the team, the _most_ important part, he had used to say.

He wasn't needed now. Nobody needed _him_.

ooo

He vividly remembered the day he decided, as usual on a whim, to go to Diagon Alley. He was wandering through Flourish and Blotts. He masochistically felt like reading stories of fidelity, loyalty, and romance. It was when someone spoke to him that he realized that he was more substantial than he felt.

"Malfoy?" A baritone voice inquired, sounding curious.

He knew who was addressing him, of course. He would always know who spoke his name with those specific inflections.

"Yes, Potter?" He had inquired, not turning around.

"Just…saw you, I suppose." Potter sounded unsure. "Haven't seen you in ages."

"I didn't think we saw each other on regular basis, Potter." He thought he sounded normal, calm.

"We haven't spoken regularly, I know," Potter insisted, "But I, er, see you around normally. What have you been, er, doing, lately?"

Why was Potter still talking to him? He could feel Potter's eyes on his back, boring into him. "Nothing, Potter. Absolutely nothing," he said with a mirthless laugh. "And as scintillating as this conversation has been, I have to return to my nothing." He had nothing to return to.

He had made to leave the store, go back to the Manor, _what had he been thinking!? _But Potter had grabbed his wrist. His skin still burned from the warmth of his touch.

Potter had tugged him around, his green eyes piercing, _concerned?_ And then he had said three words that had his heart beating and his eyes burning.

"Malfoy, what's wrong?"

He had fled. Snarled a response: "_Nothing, Potter!_" and wrenched his wrist free, running out the door. He had no decorum left to preserve anyways.

He had Apparated straight to the Manor, straight to the middle of his large, lonely bed.

He was ashamed of what he had done then. Sobbing, tears running scalding tracks down his face, he had plunged his hand into his pants, and harshly, painfully brought himself to orgasm. Seeing Potter's concerned eyes and concerned voice and he didn't need it, he didn't want it! He didn't need Potter's fucking concerns, he didn't need to be the next thing that Potter saved. If only it hadn't been Potter…

And he had thought he was being honest with himself.


End file.
